


the thrill of knowing how alone we are

by callunavulgari



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Arguing, Kissing, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:47:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23500306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callunavulgari/pseuds/callunavulgari
Summary: He’s in the middle of a point that has rapidly spiraled out of control when John spins to face him abruptly, closes the distance between them in two steps, and curls a fist into Rodney’s vest and just,shakeshim. It feels a bit like being on a tilt-a-whirl, and Rodney blinks at him, disoriented, when John snaps, “Right now, I really don’t know if I want to kiss you or shove you off the damn bridge.”Rodney, who is, in fact, on a bridge right now, has never had the best sense of self preservation, because he snaps right back, “Oh good, can I pick?”
Relationships: Rodney McKay/John Sheppard
Comments: 7
Kudos: 146





	the thrill of knowing how alone we are

**Author's Note:**

  * For [buffycuddlespigs (respoftw)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/respoftw/gifts).



> For buffycuddlespigs. Thanks for the prompt! I missed playing in John and Rodney's sandbox. Title is from Better Love by Hozier, because it's what was playing on my Mcshep playlist when I was trying to figure out a title.

Rodney’s lost track of whatever started the argument. He knows it was something stupid, because that tends to be how all of their arguments start nowadays. But like usual, it had escalated, become something bigger than whatever bullshit it had started as. They’ve always fought - though fighting wasn’t usually the word best used to describe it. Friendly arguments, pointless petty bickering, that sometimes devolved into something _more._

This has definitely turned into the something more category. John is doing that thing where he’s constantly running his fingers through his hair, like he’s a couple seconds from tearing it out. Rodney, who doesn’t touch his hair if he can help it lest he lose more of it, is a fan of pointed jabs to the sternum and throwing his hands up in despair. 

He’s in the middle of a point that has rapidly spiraled out of control when John spins to face him abruptly, closes the distance between them in two steps, and curls a fist into Rodney’s vest and just, _shakes_ him. It feels a bit like being on a tilt-a-whirl, and Rodney blinks at him, disoriented, when John snaps, “Right now, I really don’t know if I want to kiss you or shove you off the damn bridge.”

Rodney, who is, in fact, on a bridge right now, has never had the best sense of self preservation, because he snaps right back, “Oh good, can I pick?”

They pause. John’s chest is heaving and Rodney can see the hammering of his pulse point. But it’s struck home. He can see that his words have struck right where they were supposed to, because John’s gaze darts down to his lips then back up again. He licks his own lips, and he’s close enough that Rodney gets the shocking pleasure of watching his pupils flare wider.

The guardrail is digging into Rodney’s hips and there’s nobody out this way. Just the stars above them and the churning of water far, far below. Atlantis hums around them, a soft thrum that he hadn’t noticed when they first arrived, like now she wants them to know that she’s there, quiet and unobtrusive, but home. 

“Depends on what you pick,” John whispers, but the fight has gone out of him. He takes another step closer, until they’re pressed together from the chest down. They’ve been close like this before. He and John have this bad habit where they fight and bicker and press each and every single one of the other’s buttons until they end up in bed somewhere, or crowded into a closet, or once, quite memorably, bent over a table in the mess hall. 

It isn’t a new thing, but they haven’t really spoken about it like this either. They just push and push until inevitably, one of them breaks and wordlessly drags the other somewhere quiet. 

Rodney swallows, the click of his throat loud in the quiet between them, and drawls, “C’mon, John. Which one do you think I’ll pick?”

John takes a deep breath, his hand flexing in the fabric of Rodney’s shirt, and says, “Yeah, okay.”

Rodney’s always liked the way that John kisses. It’s messy, passionate, and all hands - John’s hands sliding up to clasp tight to his jawline or sliding under his clothes or clutching his hips. He’s a full body kisser, and Rodney fucking loves it, because it was so unexpected. 

Back when he’d first thought of this, when he was new to Atlantis and the idea of John Sheppard, he’d assumed that John would be one of those dead fish types. The repressed soldier who just wanted to fuck, but never kiss. The one who wanted his dick sucked, but never entertained the idea of sucking Rodney’s in return. 

John, he’s learned repeatedly over the last year, is a giver. Oh, he’ll hold Rodney down and fuck him if that’s what he wants, if that’s what happens naturally, but he’s just as happy to walk himself backwards onto the bed and spread his legs enticingly. He loves sucking cock, one of those guys who has less technique but makes up for it in spades with sheer enthusiasm. And he kisses like he’s drowning for it. 

Rodney makes a quiet noise when John’s lips find his now, a little whimper that turns into a groan when John deepens the kiss, hand coming up to palm the place where Rodney’s jaw and neck meet. His hips hitch against John’s, and slowly, they slide to the ground together. John clamors into his lap, all knees, and reaches between them to press his knuckles against the front of Rodney’s pants, where his erection is straining against the fabric.

John smiles against his mouth, humming happily, and breaks the kiss to bite the curve of Rodney’s neck. 

“Fuck,” Rodney whispers, and glances around to make sure they’re still alone. They are, which is good. The air smells like salt water and the whip of clean wind, and he has never, ever fucked anyone in a place this open, where he can see the constellations stretch out above him. 

“Fuck,” he says again when John flicks open his belt.

“That’s the idea,” John murmurs against his throat, his hand finally making it past Rodney’s waistband. Rodney trembles when John gets a hand around him, his hips jerking up into his touch. 

“John, are you- I mean, are you sure? We can go back to my room, it’s closer.”

John’s teeth scrape gently along his jawline, and he pulls back just far enough to get out, “That would be an extra ten minutes where I’m not touching you.”

Rodney makes another quiet strained noise and thinks very hard about closing his teeth around his hand so he _stops talking_ , but he has to make at least one more token protest, has to gasp out, “Yeah, but-”

John pulls back, looking at him. His lips are swollen and wet, his hair is messy, and he is sitting in Rodney’s lap with a hard on, _why are they still talking?_

“Rodney,” John says. 

Rodney swallows, shifting his hips experimentally. “Yeah?”

“Do you want me to throw you off the bridge?”

Rodney cranes his neck to look behind him, where the white-capped waves are churning sluggishly some three stories below them. 

“Not particularly,” he says.

John nods, and with the hand still wrapped around Rodney’s dick, squeezes.

“Good,” he says, already leaning forward again. “Then shut up and let me kiss you.”


End file.
